


mi casa es su casa

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Christmas Special, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Meet the Family, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: The one where the Starks join the Lannisters at Casterly Rock for a family Christmas dinner.Mayhem inevitably ensues.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Catelyn Tully Stark, Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 164





	mi casa es su casa

“Ugh, this is obscene.” 

Arya wrinkled her nose as Casterly Rock finally loomed into view, the solid gold driveway gates a distant memory now after bitching about them for the last ten minutes on the drive in. Sansa watched her detachedly, her manner serene as her younger sister’s was agitated. If she was secretly apprehensive, she folded it away quietly in long expressive hands that remained stilled on her lap while her sister gesticulated wildly. 

“Golden lions. Of _course_ there’d be bloody lions! As if we don’t already know who fucking lives here.” 

“Arya!” 

Only Catelyn could get through to Arya when she was like this and at her mother’s warning shot, the youngest Stark woman finally turned to face the rest of the limousine. Robb jerked his head back towards the driver and mouthed, “They can hear you, squirt!” 

“I don’t care,” she mumbled half-truthfully and slunk back into her seat. “Why are we even here, Ma?” 

“I swear,” Catelyn Stark replied through gritted teeth, “if you weren’t eighteen but eight, I’d put you over my lap and smack the daylights out of you by now. I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand—“ 

“To be fair, ma, you _have_ told her a thousand times so if you want her to take your threats seriously…” Robb mimed an enthusiastic spank and Catelyn burst into a laugh, as they all knew she would. 

It didn’t last long. Tension once again stretched itself thin and brittle as their limo wound its way smoothly up the treacherously craggy hill. 

Sansa stared up at the castle, set like a jewel within the rocky promontory overlooking the Sunset Sea. Prime real estate — the primest. The Lannisters were as royal as it got in the Westerlands — the third largest territory by population with Lannisport the second oldest city in the world. House Lannister ruled in name and deed one of the biggest economic powers of Westeros if not the richest. And Tywin, as their _Don_ , their pride male, suffered no fools and suffered inefficiency less so the city ran like clockwork. 

When at last their limo rounded the expansive horseshoe drive slowly and pulled to a stop, a strangled hush fell over their lot as they stared up at the hundreds of windows, each draped in festive red and gold… and green. 

“It’s Christmas at the Lannisters,” breathed Catelyn. And then more to herself than anyone, she asked, “Are you ready?” 

* * *

_He_ was there to greet them all. To greet _her_. Sansa had to stop herself from flinching even though she should be used to it by now. Ser Jaime Lannister — with his lazy smile, curling blonde hair and athlete's body — fairly sprung out the heavy ironwood doors and was now drawing their mother into his arm-and-a-half for a quick welcome kiss before tucking her hand into the crook of his tanned, muscly arm (the whole one). He escorted her handsomely past the impressive household retinue standing on ceremony like black and white soldiers while the rest of them – save Sansa, who always seemed to _glide_ somehow — tried not to shuffle behind their mother like clods from the country. 

Dating back to when the gods were young, the castle itself had been hewn out of the actual rock from which the Lannisters still mined their primary source of untold and obscene wealth: gold. Coupled with granite, red brick from Essos, and tan Westerland stone, the castle was as long as it was deep with an imperious turret on every corner, each with their private entrances accessible through rooftop terraces and blessed with breathtaking views of the Sunset Sea or Lannisport, depending on their aspect. As they stepped through to the nine-storey atrium lit by the gods (and a strategically retrofitted pyramidal skylight in the style of 1780s Highgarden septs), they were told rather flippantly of the catacombs, dungeons, secret tunnels, and redoubts that snaked from the castle to deep within the bowels of their present foundations. 

“Perhaps my father might show you around later,” Ser Jaime shrugged even as Arya failed to repress a disbelieving snort. 

“Lord Tywin? Tour guide?” Arya rolled her eyes while Rickon giggled and even Bran snapped out of it long enough to smile wanly. But their mother no longer seemed so relaxed and had quite tensed up, actually. 

“How many are coming, Jaime?” she murmured now. “I thought tonight was supposed to be a party.” 

“It was, it was…” Jaime replied almost distractedly. “But in the end, we thought a family affair was better. Easier, more intimate. Father was in no mood for festivities, and well….” 

“A family affair?” And Catelyn Stark now looked almost alarmed. “Then are we intruding?” But something else passed between Catelyn and Jaime. A colder stare, a silent reproach so that Jaime finally looked away, his annoyance masking his guilt perhaps. 

“It'll be fine,” he pressed, lightly stroking her hand with impatient reassurance. “There’s still a fair few of us and they know you’re all coming. I’m sure everyone is looking forward to it.” 

Catelyn glanced worriedly at Sansa before the double doors opened into the sitting room and exposed all within. 

By turns, the Lannisters were doleful, suspicious, languorous, spiteful, and haughty. And there were more of them draped and standing about the capacious room than Sansa had ever met before, although her eyes fell immediately on the worst two of the lot. Joffrey was fairly jumping out of his thin skin to torment his former beau, while his hateful mother was in typical form, the plunging neckline of her skintight dress as low as the wine level in her glass was high. Together they sneered in unison, although Sansa wondered if Cersei’s daggers were not more pointed at her mother standing stiffly by Jaime’s side. Lord Tywin was ostensibly not in the room. 

“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Lady Catelyn Stark—“ 

“Are you still formally going by that title, seeing how _dear_ Ned’s been barely dead two years and you’re cavorting with my brother now, mm?” drawled Cersei quietly from her Chesterfield. “Or are you not _quite_ ready to move on just yet?” She beamed though her eyes were flinty and her malevolence rippled through the room like hot air unfurling from a pissy dragon. 

Robb grabbed the scruff of Arya’s shirt as a precaution. The air in the room palpably thickened. Joffrey’s grin widened and Sansa had a sudden familiar fantasy of chopping his skinny cock off and hearing him scream. 

“Cersei,” growled Jaime, but there was movement elsewhere now. 

“Welcome…” sounded a familiar baritone and Catelyn turned stiffly even as Sansa smiled. It was barely past tea time and the infamous Imp was already on his way to being quite drunk, which was to say that he was at his most amiable and pleasant. Tyrion Lannister shook Sansa’s hand gravely though Arya swore she caught a twinkle in his eye (it was hard to tell with all that scarring), and then chastely kissed Catelyn’s hand, seeing how she did not bend down low to kiss him in the Dornish way on both cheeks. Colour rose high on Catelyn’s cheeks. 

“I feel that way myself lately,” Tyrion covered smoothly, pounding his lower back for emphasis. “The coastal air always brings out my rheumatism. I swear it gets harder and harder to condescend to others as one gets older.” 

“You fell down the stairs on your way back to your room after yesterday’s nightcap, you mean,” drawled Jaime Lannister and both brothers chuckled as if everyone else weren’t still on tenterhooks. 

The swollen air in the room now let out slightly, the rest of the introductions proceeded with less excitement. Even as she went through the motions when it came her turn, Sansa watched as her mother forced herself to relax and as her game face slid back on. By the time she shook Lady Genna Lannister’s hand and was introduced to her flaccid husband and forgettable children, Catelyn Stark was in full professional form. 

“Where’s father?” Jaime finally asked tersely and Tyrion shrugged. 

“My guess — business, as usual. Although you know what mindfuckery he comes up with sometimes, needing the big grand entrance. I suspect he’ll join us at dinner in spectacular fashion. It’s white tie tonight, by the way.” And both Jaime and Arya groaned while Catelyn and Sansa looked relieved. 

“Oh stop it. Try looking good in a dress suit when your dick almost brushes the floor,” grumbled Tyrion as he ambled out the room. 

* * *

“What are you doing here!” 

“Checking out your room — gods, I _knew_ it was gonna be bigger than mine! — and b‘sides, I’m ready.” 

Sansa stared at her sister through her dressing table mirror before whirling around indignantly. 

“You can’t possibly wear that!” 

“Why not. They said White Tie, didn’t they?” 

“For the _men_ ,” snapped Sansa. “Mama is going to _kill_ you!” But Arya only laughed girlishly as she showed off her dinner suit, twirling on tippy-toes, her leather Oxfords winking in the chandelier light. 

“Mama’s got bigger fish to fry…” And Arya sauntered in before flopping back on Sansa’s bed and spreading eagle. 

“Your sheets feel nicer than mine.” 

“Get off!” cried Sansa. “You’ll crease it!” 

“Doubt it. This dress coat is pretty thick. But you’re right about the silk waistcoat… fucking precious! Look at it!” 

“I don’t mean _you_ , I mean the bed!” 

“I want to talk! I _need_ to talk.” And Arya jerked her head meaningfully at Sansa’s lady’s maid before jumping up suddenly to face the young woman herself. 

“You work for _them_ , don’t you! You need to leave. Now.” And when the maid refused, looking askance at Sansa instead, Arya scowled exasperatedly at Sansa. 

“Make her leave! Before I—” 

“It’s alright,” Sansa assured her maid and both sisters watched as the Lannister help curtsied before shutting the door quietly behind her. 

“People always listen to you. They never listen to me.” 

“There, there...,” Sansa soothed while a smile played on her supple lips, “it’s only because you’re so annoying.” She ducked, laughing, as a cushion glanced her cheek. “Alright! Now what’s on your mind? I’m still only half ready, so make it quick.” 

“You are _such_ a fucking princess,” mocked Arya out of habit before she suddenly launched with, “What the hell do you think this weekend is about?” 

It was a topic done to death between the girls, but the last few hours had given them plenty more to chew on and then some. 

“I’m not sure I know,” began Sansa slowly. “I’m not sure even Mama knows.” 

“Did you see her face when she realised this wasn’t a Christmas society ball after all? I could have sworn she would have really laid it into Jaime if she wasn’t so constantly prissy about setting an example for us. What do you think that was? An ambush? Did blondie _lie?_ ” 

“Sin of omission, more like,” Sansa mused. “Maybe things really did change that quickly and he didn’t want to scare Mama off. Maybe he just wanted her to come.” 

“He said something about Tywin not wanting festivities…” And at that, Arya shuddered. “Ugh. Can you imagine being under someone that temperamental? It’s bad enough living with you, but at least _you’re_ not in charge of anything, let alone the entire fate of a House.” 

“Hey!” Sansa threw the cushion at Arya, which the latter dodged easily. “Rude!” 

“Seriously, though. You hung around them in King’s Landing at least. What’s Tywin like?” 

“I hardly saw him,” Sansa balked. “It’s not like he had a lot of time for Joffrey—” 

“—Argh, the fuckwit! Don’t say his name! Argh!—” 

“And I just kept out of his way, you know? He’s over there doing his thing, I was over here doing—“ 

“—Fuckwit,” finished Arya with an exaggerated shudder. “No family dinners? No one-on-one time with the head honcho? Surely control-freak Tywin would want to suss you out for himself? Especially when Fuckwit stood to inherit the lot after Robert's heart attack?” 

But Sansa shook her head, even as the tips of her ears started to warm. They always seemed to when the topic of Tywin Lannister came up, she thought to herself irritably. 

“He terrifies me,” she admitted at last. “OK? Happy? Your big sister avoided the man like the plague because he’s… just… too much. I mean, he cows _Cersei Lannister!_ ” 

“Well, _I_ don’t find him intimidating!” Arya declared before mentally walking herself back from such a brassy claim. It was admittedly easier to boast while the man in question remained a mythological beast rather than a real-life intimidating S.O.B. come dinnertime. 

“Arya…” Sansa hesitated now as she chose her words. “This whole effort for our family to meet all of Jaime’s… Do you think…” 

“It’s too soon.” 

“It’s been three years since Papa died, Arya.” 

“It’s too fucking soon!” 

“I know,” Sansa soothed, "I feel the same way. But look at us! We’re in Casterly Rock, it’s already happening. It’s Christmas _dinner_ , Arya. Just family. Just our family… and theirs.” 

“It’s not all our family,” Arya retorted archly. "Jon’s not here.” 

“You know what I mean." 

Silence as each sister tried and failed to grasp the enormity, the implications of such a union. Of such a _merging._

“Gods, we’ll be _related_ to that fuckwit and his bitch mother!” Arya finally sighed in disgust. “What will he be? First cousin by marriage? Could be worse, I suppose. Imagine Joffrey as our half-brother! Gods, fuck, no!" 

Sansa stared out her window at the south turret, her mind a million miles from here. 

* * *

The gong had sounded five minutes ago, and she was still late after being warned _ad nauseam_ that Lord Tywin did not abide tardiness at dinner. Sansa skipped down the last few steps then forced herself to slow. The last thing she needed was a rip in her gown from catching her stiletto on the tulle. Or a broken neck. 

It was a Christmas gown, a floaty, dreamy confection in wine red that could complement any silly Santa hat that Robb might think to jam on her head for a laugh. In white, Sansa wouldn’t have minded the timeless cut for her own wedding someday, with its strapless fitted velvet bodice, its daring sweetheart neckline and a full skirt that caught at her hips and billowed gently, layers of the softest tulle cascading down her long legs into a court train that trailed after her like a burgundy mist… 

“You’re late!” hissed Cat, snapping her daughter out of her reverie as she gripped Sansa’s elbow and marched her firmly southward, her determined strides testing the stretch of her own royal blue fishtail gown. The grand dining hall was hard to miss for its sheer size and location; just off to the side from the dramatic atrium, the hall often doubled as a smaller ballroom, the high ceilings exaggerating its famed grandeur and expanse. Considering they were a formal party of at least forty disparate adult Lannisters, Freys, Starks and other strays thrown together for an awkward evening of make-nice, plenty of space was most welcome. 

They crossed the atrium finally and Catelyn nodded to the footmen, who both bowed slightly before smartly swinging the double doors apart. At once, the blood drained from Cat’s face and Sansa froze in her place. 

Everyone was in there, seated and waiting. Even bloody Arya, who was now silently protesting her efforts, indignation and innocence by shaking her head profusely. But it was the figure in the middle of the room who made Sansa suddenly tremulous. 

Tywin Lannister rose from his seat, his face grave and pinched in barely concealed annoyance. As he did, a nervous scrape of chairs followed as each family member and guest took their cue from him and rose to stand accordingly. 

“Glad you could finally join us Lady Stark, Lady Sansa.” The edge of ice in his sonorous voice assured them both that he meant quite the opposite. 

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Tywin,” Catelyn replied quietly, her clear voice showing no sign of nervousness although she gripped her daughter’s hand like a vice. “We meant no disrespect. My daughter simply lost her way in this grand house.” 

On cue, Sansa bent her head demurely but not before she caught the cynical downturn of Tywin’s mouth. Joffrey snorted. 

“Silly bitch,” he crowed to the striking young woman beside him, loud enough so everyone heard him anyway. “Can’t trust that stupid cow to find her way out of… out of… a... maze, you know?” 

To Catelyn’s private consternation, she found herself seated at Tywin’s right hand as his principal guest while Jaime was seated on his left as his second. Cersei sat close beside her twin and eyed Catelyn beadily as she carefully lowered herself into her chair but Catelyn ignored her pointedly, staring instead at Jaime as if to ask about the arrangements. He frowned and shook his head slightly, then offered her the tiniest of smiles so she found herself temporarily assuaged. 

Sansa slipped into the empty chair between Robb and Arya, already groaning at her dinner guest facing her directly. Joffrey smirked and elbowed his date. “Look who’s here, Lady Margaery — last year’s model.” He chortled nastily and to Sansa’s surprise, Lady Margaery actually laughed along before flashing Sansa a winning smile. 

“Do ignore Joffrey, Lady Sansa. You know what a larrikin he is! I’ve been looking forward to meeting you finally. I’ve heard you are a formidable equestrian and a wonderful singer. Do you still ride?” 

It turned out that Margaery, though not as adept with horses, proved brilliant nonetheless with other beasts and managed somehow to tame Joffrey long enough so that the next few courses passed in relative peace. 

“How many more courses?” whispered Sansa to Robb when she finally had the chance. 

“Eighteen, kiddo,” grimaced her older brother before winking at Margaery, who dimpled prettily. 

“And Rickon?” 

“Lucky thing got to have his dinner in the nursery with the babies,” offered Arya between mouthfuls. “He was borderline but lied and said he was eleven and pleaded off. Clever boy,” added Arya enviously, flicking a glance at the head of the table. “Gods, don’t look Sans, but he’s glaring at you _right now_. I think he heard us!” 

“Who?” 

“I said don’t look!” 

Too late — no sooner did Arya say the words that their eyes caught. Tywin Lannister stared straight at Sansa and it was like he held her in her place with his hard bare hands. In a trice, she was in King’s Landing again, barely squeaking the first time he accosted her in the hallway outside his private office for ‘lurking about’. She remembered how tall he was. Remembered absently wondering if he had just come in from the sun as his scent mingled with expensive cologne. She remembered the narrowness of that passageway, how he seemed to suddenly tower over her, crowd her in. How he took all the oxygen in a room just by walking into it. How that stare could reduce her to all kinds of stupid. 

His gaze dropped a fraction and Sansa was suddenly conscious of her neckline. How it skimmed across the tops of her high breasts before diving down the centre… He looked thoughtful now. Even approving. A treacherous dull red started to creep up her décolletage... 

Sansa blinked and he looked through her suddenly, as if she were inconsequential. Invisible. She realised now that she had been holding her breath. And that Tyrion was talking to her. 

“I trust you are comfortable in your digs, Lady Sansa?” 

“Yes,” Sansa blinked. “Yes… thank you, Lord Tyrion. It’s a beautiful room.” 

“Good… good… Which room did we end up putting you up in again?” 

“Whatever room the lady finds herself in is of no concern to you,” cut in a voice coldly so half the banquet table suddenly fell silent. “If you have a decent bone left in your useless profligate body, you would leave the girl well alone.” 

“I know you’re quite convinced I’m a man-whore, father dearest,” replied Tyrion lightly, “but I really was just asking after the lady's comfort as their host, nothing more." 

“You are not their host,” came Tywin Lannister's clipped rejoinder, “for this is not your house.” 

“Ouch!” giggled Joffrey while Cersei raised her wine glass for a refill and smiled nastily at her brother. 

“Every family’s got one,” Cersei leaned in towards Catelyn now and smiled confidentially. “Where’s Jon Snow, by the way?” 

Sansa felt Robb bristle instantly and gripped his wrist in warning. 

Catelyn cleared her throat and met Cersei’s stare evenly. “Jon is still away in the North. Duty calls and he was unable to take leave. He sends his apologies.” 

“Such useful work, guarding that big wall…” purred Cersei thoughtfully as she leaned back in her chair, pressing herself against Jaime’s side. “It’s like boarding school, only cheaper.” She raised her glass and added brightly, "Out of sight, out of mind!” 

“He’s now the Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jaime offered, his stance relaxed even as he gazed steadily at the proud, beautiful woman across the table, willing her to focus on him. “Isn’t that right, Catelyn?” 

“We are very proud of Jon,” Robb finished tersely, cutting Arya off before she could yell at their mother for her frozen silence. 

“That’s nice,” smiled Cersei. “Always _such_ a relief when you don’t have to worry about the children. You’re _very_ brave you know, Jaime darling, for taking on another man’s family, mm? New relationships at our age come with _so_ much baggage. It’s inevitable! But at least you’re shackling yourself to a housebroken brood. Catelyn, you must be _so_ thankful to find Jaime after Ned’s death. I know, widow to widow, how hard it is to raise children all on your own.” 

This time, Jaime stilled and Sansa watched nervously as he clenched his left fist twice before relaxing it. 

“You know…” he began slowly, his chiselled jaw still working as he chose his words, “since Catelyn and I started… happening... I feel like my life is properly starting for the first time." 

Catelyn watched as Jaime pulled himself away from his sister, his piercing cat-green eyes never leaving Cersei’s face as if to drill his full meaning. 

"Like it’s whole, you know? And pure.” 

What did that even mean! But instinct told Sansa that things were about to hit the proverbial fan, just as Arya seemed to sense the same. “Fuck…” she heard her sister breathe beside her and Tyrion choked on his wine just when Cersei dropped to that psycho-whisper Sansa knew only too well. 

“How dare you…” she seethed before pointing at their mother. “Her? _Her?_ Wife of Eddard the Fucking Noble who wanted to _sell our secrets_ to the media on some cunting whistleblowing mission… whose family has dogged us on the stock exchange for decades… whose son—" she pointed now to Robb, “— had cost us at least _two billion_ in the last commodity skirmish and sent us running on a wild goose chase?!” 

Robb shrugged and tried to wipe the smirk off his face. 

"This woman right here, who personally pussy whips you until you are this sentimental, soft, insipid shadow of a real man… this woman fucking _completes_ you?” Cersei sneered now. "And you’re willing to… what? Walk away from your family just like that? Go play house in the North Fucking Pole and come back to your duties here when it suits you, huh? The way to a dried up prune like Catelyn is through the kids, isn't it? You go off, be the cool Uncle Daddy for five minutes to her loathsome inbreds—“ 

“Cersei!”

"Jaime," Catelyn begged. "Don't!"

“How dare you fucking try to be a father to them when you never—“ 

“CERSEI, I’M MARRYING HER.” 

“ENOUGH!” thundered Lord Tywin suddenly, as a stunned silence fell over the dining hall. Sansa stared at the chief Lannister, her heart pounding in her chest, her own thoughts a single high-pitched squeal of nothing, all signals jammed. Tywin had risen to his feet, the hysterics of his furious, shrieking daughter enough of an agitation to move even him to stand. 

“You’re marrying Sansa’s mum?!” Joffrey suddenly whined. 

“Shut up, boy. Of course he’s not,” returned Tywin brusquely as he pinched the flesh between his eyes. 

“I'm not eighteen, Father…” Jaime was jutting his jaw. “It’s not a question of _if_." 

“Jaime,” urged Catelyn from across the table in an urgent half-whisper, “we need to talk this through!” 

“Seven hells!” Arya breathed. 

Sansa could not breathe. 

There was a suddenly groan of wood as Cersei pushed her chair back, fending off the footman as she turned and stalked off, the clip of her stilettos on the polished marble receding as she exited the hall. Tywin slowly wiped his mouth before he threw his napkin on the table in disgust and pointed to his firstborn son. 

“You. My library. Now.” 

* * *

It had taken a whole hour to get Arya to stop talking and leave her room. Dinner had abruptly ended hours before that, all pretence given up as soon as Tywin had left the hall. In that time, their mother had disappeared with Jaime, only sending instructions for their morning evacuation by text through Robb’s phone. 

Her bags were packed. They were each to breakfast in their rooms at six instead of joining the family, and then leave at first light when it was finally safe enough to drive back down in the snow. The Starks, fleeing Casterly Rock on Christmas Day. What a bust. 

Sansa stared at her Christmas dress still hanging on the wardrobe door, unwilling even now to pack it away and end a memory. It was such a beautiful dress and she had been beautiful in it. 

She stared out her window at the light in the south turret and waited. 

When it was time, Sansa walked over to the marble bust of Tytos Lannister perched on the mantelpiece and rotated it counter clockwise. The second last wooden wall panel to the left of the fireplace slid open silently revealing a dimly lit passageway. She entered it, triggering the sensor lights as she made her way, slowly at first before she shirked her temporary claustrophobia, her bedroom slippers muffling the soft padding of her feet as she made her way briskly to the family wing of Casterly Rock. 

Eventually she emerged on a rooftop terrace, the cold winter winds whipping her silk robe around her legs as she pressed the intercom and called out his name. 

Tywin was still in his smoking jacket, though he wore it unbuttoned over thick silk pyjamas that were cool to the touch as she slipped her arms under the velvet of his jacket and clung to him, savouring the feel of his chest on her cheek, the steady thump of his beating heart for her. 

“What a night,” she murmured before he dipped his head to kiss her softly, covering her mouth with his own as he tasted her. And she felt truly warmed for the first time this winter. 

The south turret overlooked the Sunset Sea on one side and the city of Lannisport on the other, its sparkling lights still dancing and merry as revellers welcomed Christmas and refused to see their beds. Spread over two floors that pinnacled forty feet above the sitting room, Tywin’s private domain was eclectically decorated by scattered reminders of his experience and travels: Valyrian rugs, a mid-century Dornish dining table, vintage collectibles, bespoke furnishings, and rare art. Modular timber floors and stairways zoned the spaces and his bed sat on a giant cantilever, taking pride of place near the top of the tower. 

It was there that he led her, their footsteps in sync as they climbed the winding stair. Wordlessly he lifted her, dropping her gently in the heart of his bed while he disrobed, their movements practised and familiar, urgent and yet assured. She traced her favourite lines of his sombre face as he entered her, and he buried his face in her neck so that he was filled with her when he came. And then he was staring down at her and she felt, once more, that familiar tremor, that shiver of delight and wonder and terror and desire. No matter how many times they came together, it was the same. The very moment she first clapped eyes on him after an absence, she would be thunderstruck. And he would be moved deeply, terribly. She knocked him sideways, always. And he would scrabble for a counter-balance, his scowls deepening even as he felt his heart lighten. 

“Will they marry anyway?” she asked after a time. “My mother, your son?” 

“That is their plan. For now.” He sounded a little annoyed still and she stifled a smile. 

“We saw this coming,” she reminded him. “You _wanted_ this, remember? Our two houses? United through marriage? See what greed does to your love life?” 

“That was before,” he scowled. 

“Before?” 

“Before.” She knew better than to push him for more. 

“Are you ready, Tywin?” she asked now, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Are you sure?” 

“It is expedient to go along with it. For now.” 

“And what if they have children?” 

Tywin raised an eyebrow. “Does your mother want another child?” 

“I’m thinking more about Jaime. Surely he’d like to have children of his own?” A pause. “I’ll be his daughter, in name. And your… granddaughter.” 

“Wash your mouth!” Tywin commanded as she started to giggle. 

“Can you imagine if we came out to them? My mother would be both your daughter _and_ the mother of your girlfriend. How insane would that be! OH, even better — Jaime could end up becoming your _father-in-law_ …” 

Sansa gasped as soon as the words left her. She clapped her hands over her mouth, horrified. 

“Father-in-law?” repeated Tywin blandly as he mapped it in his head. “I suppose that would be the case. If we married.” 

“Tywin… I wasn’t presuming… I was just being silly…” 

“For if you were my wife, you are also Jaime's daughter by marriage, which would, therefore, make me his son-in-law. I see.” 

“I’m so sorry, Tywin! That was absolutely not what I meant—" 

“But you would also become Jaime's mother because you would be his father’s wife.” 

“I wasn’t fishing… please let’s just forget this!” 

“And Catelyn, now the mother of Jaime’s stepmother, effectively becomes his grandmother even as she is his wife.” 

“Oh gods, stop now!” Sansa started to laugh, burying her head in a pillow. 

“And if we were to have a child, say a boy…” 

Sansa froze. 

“If we were to have a boy,” Tywin continued, his eyes boring into hers now. "Jaime would be a grandfather to his own brother.” 

“Tywin…” She stopped. What was he saying? Where was he going with this? His eyes were hooded, unblinking. She could not read them, impossible man. He didn’t look mad and he wasn’t mocking her. Her breath caught in her throat, her mind churned. Her heart thudded in her chest. 

_Did this mean anything? Anything at all?_

“Tywin…” And the words died in her throat as he kissed her gently. 

“You were very beautiful tonight. That dress.” 

“It was for you, you know. It always is." 

**Author's Note:**

> This story idea had been churning in dribs and drabs for a while, chiefly the possibility of Jaime Lannister becoming his own grandpa. 
> 
> Thanks for indulging me as I try to get back on the writing saddle. :)
> 
> Merry (Belated) Christmas to all! xx


End file.
